


I Wear my Sunglasses at Night

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Interpol, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-17
Updated: 2005-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was the night the one armed man came to town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wear my Sunglasses at Night

That was the night the one-armed man came to town. Baby-faced but old, obligatory leather jacket (weren't they out of style by now), obligatory snarl, not so obligatory nine millimeter strapped to his chest. Daniel didn't say much, just got very still and very quiet, until he started talking and then he couldn't stop, the words tumbling over themselves rapid-fire quick while Paul imagined himself a superhero, imagined rescuing them both (from what? the man with the gun said it's okay baby, i won't hurt you. much.) Wanting Sam to be there. Grateful Carlos wasn't.

Is sex consensual if you're too terrified to say no? Odds are, not. Daniel looked so young, finally stopped rambling on about nothing and they got down to business, while Paul felt his eyes go wide despite himself, found himself squeaking despite himself. Perhaps if he wasn't so wasted he wouldn't just be imagining their rescue. The cellphone he carried - no, baby, you don't. Don't call me baby. But he just did. And Paul looked down and away and shuffled his feet, breath caught in his throat as Daniel said, It's going to be okay, Paul. Sure it is.

He fucks one and kidnaps the other. Is that how it goes. His MO. Or - I was just bored, you know. They hired me to kill this kid. Diplomat's kid. Likes to come to this club. I fucking hate New York.

Who hates New York? Alex Krycek apparently. That your real name? Committing it to memory. If he survived he'd have a name to tell the cops. It's real, but you won't tell it to anyone. Fact, not speculation. Paul clutched the leather seats and tried not to squirm. Your music's horrible, by the way. And that hurt, more than anything else so far. Fuck you, and he'd snarled, even though it wasn't exactly the thing to do (the man with the gun said baby, no baby, it's going to be the other way around tonight) and you're so pretty when you blush red, also what he said. Bright smile, glittering teeth - they were in the back seat of a car parked at the side of the road. If he screamed, someone might come and rescue him. If he screamed, someone might just yell, shut the fuck up and maybe now, at this very moment, he hated New York too.

No-one here gives a fuck about anyone else, is why I hate New York.

That's not true. But like, whatever, man.

(The man with the gun said, baby, don't argue with the man with the gun. Especially not over something like his right to hate some godforsaken city. But then the man with the gun said, maybe i'm lying. New York's why I'm here right? With you.)

You're so fucking wasted it's sweet.

I'm not - but yeah. He was sticky and hot and wet, and he bit his lip a long time ago and now there was dried blood on his chin and his legs were cramping and there was a rip and a tug and a hand down his pants and if he was depressed before he should be suicidal now and not just because he was hard, and needy still, and not exactly struggling, or fighting, or doing anything really, but letting his arms fall to his sides and if only he could stop thinking about Daniel's face this would be so much easier for everyone all around. They were all going to die anyway, or so the man also said. Remarkably chatty for a one-armed assassin but he guessed everyone got lonely sometimes and who else to get chatty with than one of your victims. Someone you'd kill afterwards so they'd not repeat stories you told about alien invasions (what the hell?) and other so-surreal tales they were most likely true.

Paul wasn't quite sure he believed in God, Daniel was always the better Catholic but he bet Daniel was relying on the divine power of technology right now to hopefully, find him, before he wound up in some alley with his throat slit - such a tragedy, they were so full of promise hey the price of their EP just shot way up collector's edition no doubt. He wanted to draft a letter though. Girlfriend, parents. Possibly the few people he liked well enough to consider real friends. It wouldn't say much.

Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you.

Oh. Not exactly a disappointment. Fear's a thrill ride through an amusement park without a safety belt. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted it to end. The ride. Or life. Possibly life. Possibly this was a relief. Why should I believe you anyway?

Because I have no reason to lie.

Okay yeah.

Tell me more about men in black with guns and we'll compare our respective scars. I'm only twenty-two, don't mind that mine are still a bit new and raw. But he was relieved, at least that's what it felt like. Relief. There ought to be a funny side to this, but mostly he felt vaguely ill. He pressed his forehead against the leather seat and it was hot and it burned his skin and he refused to look up, even when a hand brushed his hair back softly. All the young boys and girls that wanted to (had, some of them) fuck him and he'd brought this one backstage with him. All apologies once more.

And the man with the gun said baby, shame is only a momentary spark that burns out soon enough. It's all smooth sailing after that.

And the man with the gun said, we're going to have a good time tonight.


End file.
